There was a young man standing in the doorway: stylishly dressed without ostentation. He wasn’t from Cayonne. He was holding a pistol aimed at us. My heart and stomach tumbled slowly and painfully down a very long flight of stairs. He was Christine.
“Damn,” I breathed.
“Why?” she hissed.
“Put the gun down,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “Let us talk.”
“Non,” she spat, and moved into the room, kicking the door shut behind her without taking her eyes off us. “I cannot trust you.”
She had almost stepped too close: close enough for me to knock the piece away. She saw this and dove back into the corner. Her hand shook and she brought her other up to steady the pistol. Her gaze was filled with fury, determination, and—perhaps most dangerous of all—desperation.
“Holding a piece on us will not make us tell the truth,” I said.
She awarded me a scathing glare. “Non, I doubt that it will. It will keep you off me, though; will it not? As long as I shoot you—if I try and shoot him you will surely throw yourself into the bullet’s path.”
I would. I shrugged. “But if you shoot me, Gaston will kill you.”
“Perhaps that would be a mercy,” she growled.
I felt my matelot’s hand on my arm. “Why what, Christine?” he asked.
Her gaze flicked to him and back to me. “Why concoct this ruse?”
“We could ask you the same,” I snapped.
Gaston’s hand tightened on my arm and he pushed and pulled me toward the end of the table. I acquiesced, and let him drag me to stand behind the table with him. I met his gaze and found his Horse not far below the surface: his man had the reins in a grip of iron, though.
Once he no longer had to lean across the table to keep a hand on me, he addressed Christine, “For the child.”
“What?” she asked.
“She is mine and my responsibility,” he said calmly. “I would have her live a happy life: one free of hatred: your hatred of me, and Will, and how she was conceived.”
At first her eyes widened with surprise, and then she shook her head and snorted with incredulity. “Hatred? Do not speak to me of hatred. You cannot begin to comprehend…” Her gaze darted to me. “Even you cannot comprehend the breadth and depth of my hatred; because if you could, your cousin would surely be a dead man. Non. I had such plans for this moment: our meeting. Such plans. I was going to arrive here—or wherever you were—with my uncle’s men; and I was going to make you suffer so. And then…” Her glare switched to Gaston. “And then you go and agree that I am your wife! Now my uncle considers the matter done, and he is pleased with the result. He says I should be happy!”
I smarted from her jibe, but I followed my matelot’s lead and held my Horse still and spoke quietly. “You have what you wanted. You have a noble’s name. We can give you money. You can travel Christendom. You can mingle at Versailles.”
“What I wanted?” she snarled. “That is not what I want.”
“What do you want?” Gaston asked kindly.
She glared at him, only to lose that resolve and shake her head in frustration. “Damn you!”
Her eyes were filling with tears. I poignantly recalled her striking a post and swearing she would someday learn not to cry. It was such a weakness of women: the tears that always accompanied anger.
“Who are we talking to this day?” I asked. “The brave girl I first met at the governor’s: the one who wished to lead armies and sail the seas; or the coquettish, lying creature we last saw: the one who disavowed such foolishness and only wished for a husband?”
Her fury reached such proportions her tears dried and she dropped the pistol to her side to stand and glare at us. “Damn you both to Hell and back,” she said icily.
“Christine, I am sorry,” Gaston said. “I can never atone for what I… allowed to happen to you. I believed you wished to hurt Will. So… I unleashed my madness upon you. And now… things stand as they stand. I give you my name—and title. I will care for the child. I will provide you what I can. I will not ask that you not hate me—or that you forgive me. I ask nothing of you other than… That you live your life as you wish.”
She had refuted his words with little shakes of her head as he spoke, and when he finished her tears returned and she shouted with more frustration than rage as she gestured about with the pistol. “Oh damn you! You damn bastard! Why can you not be a proper demon? Why does everything have to be so damn complicated?”
Her words struck a resounding chord in my heart and I smiled. “I felt much the same… When I first learned I favored men, and that that was not as it should be. But, Christine, there is no glory in a simple life.”
She snorted and pawed her tears away. She glared at me. “I am not that girl you first met, but a grown woman now.”
“With the same dreams?” I asked.
She cursed quietly. “They are as much foolishness as I said when last we met.”
“Yet you are here,” I said. “I assume you traveled dressed thusly.”
“Oui! But I cannot live like this!” she hissed, her voice low as if she worried for this admission alone being overheard despite all else she had said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I do not wish to be a man in… all regards—even if it were in my power to truly become one.”
“Why not?” I asked again.
She glared. “I discovered I wanted…” She looked away. “A man of my own.” Her gaze glanced over Gaston and quickly shot away. “Before… Damn you both.”
My matelot sighed and leaned heavily on the table.
I sighed as well, but not with regret or resignation. It was as Agnes had said, Gaston’s Horse had seen, and I had come to believe: Christine had wanted me for herself.
“You are young yet, and there is the entirety of the world left for you to search. I am sure…”
Her renewed glare stopped me. “I do not want a man who would want that girl you so despised.” She looked away with a roll of her eyes as if in disgust at speaking as she had. Her quiet cursing filled the corner she stood in.
“Then Christine, you need to live as that girl I did not despise. I feel you know that well. So what excuse do you make for not wishing to do so?”
“I cannot live like this! Not for… long. You do not understand. It is living in constant fear. I will speak too high. Someone will think my attempting to pitch my voice low is too affected. I will talk in my sleep. I am not standing correctly. I am not sitting correctly. I am weak. I do not know a thing men should know. I cannot wield a sword as I should. I cannot stand and piss. I will bleed through my breeches.
“It goes on and on. Every moment of every day is filled with fear that I will be found out. It is torture! Every time I have attempted to live as a boy it has been a relief when I am discovered or revealed. And then when I am discovered… My God, the anger at my hubris. How dare I—a lowly woman—masquerade as a man? It is ungodly. I might as well confess to witchcraft. If the men in the Carolina colony had not known I was a knight’s daughter I would have been…” She glanced at Gaston and looked away again.
I understood. I surely did not see her as a slender youth in her frock coat and boots. I saw a scared and sad girl. And I felt she was correct, even if I had not known her gender I would have thought her effete. She was not masculine, and even the attempts I had seen her make had been more affectation than truth. Though others who saw her had been quite taken in: primarily because they had possessed no reason to regard the matter carefully.
“Perhaps we can assist you,” I said.
She cocked her head with sarcasm. “You can teach me to piss while standing?”
She frowned at Gaston, and I turned to find him nodding.
He gave us a sheepish grimace. “I met an old fliebustier once. In his youth his member was… truncated in a battle. Some clever person fashioned a leather horn for him to use. He placed it against the stump so he could piss properly… away from his body while st
anding.”
I nodded with enthusiasm, and even Christine appeared intrigued.
“Oui, oui,” I said. “These things are just problems to be solved—cleverly. And I am sure you can be taught to act in a more masculine manner. If you wish to live like a man and… see the world or whatever you wish… If you wish for glory and adventure, I am sure we can aid you.”
She met my gaze with challenge. “Why would you? He feels guilt—as he should, but why would you do this?”
I could only guess at what she sought, and I did not like where that guess led. “For the glory of the challenge,” I replied coldly. “It would not be for you alone. I would do it for any young woman who wished to defy expectation.”
She looked away with a decidedly feminine moue of rue and embarrassment.
I nearly asked her why she was in love with me, but my Horse told me quite plainly that that was not a thing to utter—it would very likely get me shot.
Instead, I said, “Men do not show such an expression.”
She whirled to glare at me. I grinned.
“Where shall she stay?” Gaston asked. “Everyone here knows her.”
I sighed. “True, but perhaps that will make it a better school for the endeavor. If all know the ruse she is attempting, they will give the necessary critique without there being a danger of exposure. She—excuse me—he will have to be careful outside the house, though.”
I looked to Christine—Chris. I needed to think of her as male. The name was as far as I felt I could go on that matter for the time being, though. I simply could not see her as male… yet. For that matter, I was having a difficult time once again envisioning how we would ever convince anyone. Yet—in obvious and blatant refutation of my less-than-objective arguments—she had sailed here with none apparently the wiser.
This was the matter at hand and a solution. “You will need to live as a man at every hour of every day. There are complicated situations here. Any who do not know you will need to believe you are what you seek to be. And we will need to concoct a fake history. You are Chris, non, Christien… Sable: a cousin of Gaston’s.”
“I suppose we cannot legalize the marriage in the Church,” Gaston said with a thoughtful frown.
“I do not wish to be married to you,” Chris said quickly.
“Nor I you,” Gaston said coolly. “But all of France has been told we are. It might be useful—when we are much older—to have a true Church record for the benefit of our child.” His expression hardened. “I have no interest in you. I only offered the first time because it provided a convenient solution for both our problems.”
She winced from his scolding.
I pressed on. “You will need to be a Catholic. I assume you are capable of acting the good Catholic—you would have had to while visiting your family in France.”
She nodded tightly. “I feel no great loyalty to the Church of England: and I do not feel it will be a transgression of my faith to say I am Catholic.”
I wondered if she was being sarcastic or sincere. In the aftermath of her earlier show of emotion, she now seemed withdrawn—and I imagined, exhausted.
I sighed and continued. “You came here seeking adventure, perhaps. You heard of your cousin and his exploits and life from your… uncle, and being a bored young man of noble birth and no title, you came to see more of the world and perhaps make a name for yourself.”
“You are ambitious,” Chris said with a frown.
“A young man would be,” I snapped. “People will think you are a fool, especially considering your build and foppish mannerisms. That will be good. We can pass you off as a deluded boy who knows nothing other than the King’s court, brothels, and taverns, with far more ease than trying to tell them you were a soldier or farmhand.”
“I suppose.” She sighed and nodded. “Who lives here?”
I knew what she sought. “Agnes.”
She sighed and glanced at Gaston before studying the floor again. “The Marquis said she made a very fine comtesse. He was quite pleased with her. Was she happy being your wife?”
“Oui, in name…” Gaston said, “but…” He frowned at me.
I thought she would discover Agnes’ relationship with Yvette in good time, and I did not trust her to simply tell her. I gave Gaston a subtle shake of my head.
“Agnes is my wife, now.” I said. “She professes to be content with that, and…”
“You have a wife,” she said. “Where is that…” She obviously thought better of whatever she was going to call Vivian, but she still asked, “Did she die of drink?”
I looked to Gaston and found him looking at me. We could not know what the Marquis had told her: presumably he had not spoken of our trials last year—a thing of which I was profoundly relieved. We had much to discuss about what Chris should and should not be told.
I sighed and turned back to Chris—who was watching us with suspicion.
“She is dead,” I said. I tried to determine what best to say on that matter. The simple details were misleading and misrepresented poor Vivian: or begged questions that led into the great morass of things I did not wish to tell Chris.
I sighed. “My father sent men to attack Sarah’s house in Port Royal; in order to abduct Sarah and me and return us to England. In the chaos of that night, Vivian was shot.”
Gaston nodded agreement at my choice of words.
Chris frowned as if she knew we lied, but her words took a different turn. “So you married Agnes after Gaston decided to be married to me.”
I did not like her choice of words. “We decided to do what was best for the children—all of them—once we learned of the girl in France.”
She nodded, but frowned anew. She looked to Gaston. “You truly care about that child?”
“I would not have made my father a fool about your family’s claim of marriage if not to save her,” he said coldly. “How is the child?”
Chris looked away. “Ask your father. When last I heard, she was fine.”
There had been regret in her voice, and I asked, “Did you wish to raise her?”
She shook her head quickly. “Non, I… You are correct: I hated her for what she represented. I wanted nothing to do with her when she was born. And… even if she was not… I do not wish to raise a child. I do not feel motherhood as a calling. And…”
She met Gaston’s gaze. “I had nothing to do with my father’s and uncle’s claim about the marriage. I wanted nothing to do with them. I was furious with them. I hate…hated them as much as I hated the two of you.”
Gaston nodded. “We are unfortunate pawns in others’ games of intrigue.”
“And notions of tradition and propriety,” I added.
“Oui,” Chris said. She straightened her shoulders and nodded thoughtfully. “So Agnes is your wife now. Good. I suppose she hates me, too.”
“Probably,” I said. “She will definitely be surprised to see you.”
Chris snorted with amusement. “Who else?” She frowned. “Was anyone else harmed—killed—in the attack?” Her concern seemed sincere.
I struggled to choose the correct words again. “Others were wounded… And Nickel, oui, young Nickel also died.”
“I do not remember him,” she said with a little regret.
“He is not worthy of mourning in my opinion. Vivian… Vivian was happy, though. She was sober and happy.”
“Oh,” Chris said. “That is sad, then.”
There was a knock on the door and we all gave a little start. Hannah asked if Gaston was alone in a manner that said she knew he was not. My matelot asked her to enter, and when Chris appeared alarmed and I raised a curious brow, Gaston merely shrugged.
“Oh,” Hannah said at the sight of Chris.
“This is my cousin, Monsieur Christien Sable,” Gaston said smoothly. “He arrived today from France. He will be living with us.”
Chris regarded the Negro woman whom she might have recognized, and did not bow. She did thankfully deposit the pistol on the
shelf behind her.
“This is my nurse, Mademoiselle Crane,” Gaston said of Hannah. I was pleased he remembered to use her new surname.
Chris frowned but gave a short and polite bow that indicated she now understood the woman was not a slave.
Hannah nodded politely and spoke to Gaston. “Schoen woke. He claims his leg hurts. The other one.”
Gaston frowned and began to follow Hannah out the door. He stopped and looked frantically at us.
“Go,” I said and shooed him out. “We will not kill one another.”
He snorted and left us, his eyes saying in no uncertain terms that it had best be me who walked through the door if there was gunfire.
Chris watched him leave with a mixture of emotions too thickly blended for me to name.
“Gaston has become the island’s physician,” I said. “It is a position he was trained for by the former physician, Dominic Doucette. This is Doucette’s hospital. Doucette still resides here—with his wife, Madame Yvette Doucette. I will warn you now: Doucette is mad: truly mad, and Madame Doucette is scarred.” I indicated the scar on Yvette’s face with a finger across my own.
Chris grimaced with surprise.
“The Theodores are also here, along with Liam, Rucker and Bones—and Samuel and Hannah, who are no longer slaves. Sarah and Striker live at a plantation nearby. Our ship is anchored there. Most of the men we sail with are there as well.
“We will have to find a place suitable for a young man to sleep,” I continued. “I know not where: possibly the nursery since the children now sleep in our bedrooms due to our lack of a nursemaid. In any event, your stay at this house will be short-lived. This letter was one of the last things we awaited before sailing.”
She was shaking her head. “Please slow down. This is all happening so fast. For one thing, you are viewing my posing as a man as fait accompli.”
I snorted. “Well, my dear, your other option is to wear a dress; and we will have you properly married to Gaston in the Catholic Church; and then once we settle elsewhere you may have a bit of land so that you can sit and read books and order the servants around like my sister does. Or you could return to France as the Comtesse Montren—for as long as that lasts—and live where you will.”
Wolves Page 39